A Game of Circumstance
by Tzeentchavelli
Summary: A Chaos Marine reflects on both his own nature and that of those around him as he goes on a deathmarch with little regard for his followers. His life has culminated to this. Tzeentch has seen to it.


To serve Tzeentch is to spare many, for there is no mercy or honor to be found in a slow death.

These were the words that echoed in the mind of Straul as he cleaved a guardsman in two. How the little man would rejoice to learn he was freed from the fate of living to a ripe old age only to die a pauper, his mind having long since been shattered by numerous battlefields.

It was intoxicating to see the universe quiver with each stroke of his blade. Through boot, bolter, and chainsword, he was the Three Fates of Old Terra made manifest. As he waded through the ranks of the Imperial Guard and cultist alike, he saw possibilities begin and end as each corpse hit the ground.

The son of the man devoured by pink horrors would go on to become a ganger because of his father's death before conscription, only to be made an example of by a Commissar over uniform.

One of the many cultists he tore through his bolter in order to hit the Imperial troops near them was once a notorious Remembrancer until she came across heathen texts that promised greater knowledge.

The officer whose parietal bone had been perfectly separated by a bolter shell had the makings of someone who would have been well-suited for the Officio Prefectus, those makings now spread over the rockrete.

Some of the guardsmen were destined for no more than to die by his ceramite-encased hand. A pity but all had a purpose. All had a role. Just as Straul was always destined to serve the Shaper of Change.

For there to be paths both infinite and finite was the beauty of it all. Tzeentch had freed him in his servitude, sharing an obfuscating glimpse of his machinations, and it had unlocked in him the ability to see the lesser cosmos itself. He finally understood the reverence of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The universe itself was a grand machine, possessing beauty in every element of its systems but still in need of fine-tuning. If only Man could share in this vision, how they would see order in chaos. The Ruinous Powers themselves acted within their nature, and reveled in it. How could they not see? Straul knew the answer of course, their ignorance was destined, just as the teeth of his chainsword were destined to be delicately sunk into this guardsman's throat for him the rev the chain and decapitate the soldier.

Straul continued his path of carnage towards a newly-arrived platoon that had just taken position. He did not need the sight of Tzeentch to see that some of them had soiled themselves. The native regiment's weapons were primitive and near-heretical in comparison to the rest of the Imperium. They wielded the precursors of bolters that fired primitive kinetic ballistics and when reloaded, had the crisp clank of Recaf cans. Months from now, Mechanicus Inqueritors would arrive on this planet, seizing the design pattern, and declaring further unauthorized fabrication heretical. Their shells pattered pitifully against the berth of his armor like mere pebbles. A rank of cultists marched around Straul and formed the crest of Conspirator and chanted. Spirals of purple raised from the earth and flew overhead alongside screamers into the ranks of the troopers as the primi-shells made tents in the robes of the madmen, dragging the figures across the ground, kicking up dust clouds as they continued to chant even whilst dying. Straul flicked his wrist, cleaving through several chaos worshippers and made his exit through the cultists' ranks. He had a task at hand.

An imperial sniper watched expectantly as a Chaos Marine broke off from the battlefield and marched towards seemingly nothing before he stopped and turned. The Marine stood there, as if he was staring back at the sniper through the scope. He was well-concealed amongst the rubble and detritus so how could he possibly know where he was? A psyker? The Astartes continued to merely stand there, as if it were some profane statue. He hesitated. His head began to throb synchronously with the strum of mortar shells that were falling not too distantly. A sense of vague unease crept from the pit of his stomach. He was backwater but no Greenhorn, so why was he hesitating? The Fallen Marine had given him a better chance of a killshot, finally breaking away from the main body with his lens facing him. With bated breath, the sniper ended the one-sided standoff.

Straul's vox-modulator crackled before the las-bolt tore through the red-lensed eyepiece of his helm and exited explosively out of the back of his reinforced skull.

"Glory to Tzeentch."

His massive body crumpled.

Exhaling, the sniper gave a silent thanks to the Emperor who protects as the Marine fell over. He became acutely aware that the sound of mortar shells seemed to be creeping closer.

_Emperor damn it, the shell-shockers must be off-coordinates or there must be a very impatient Commissar somewh-_

Picking himself up, he froze as he turned around and saw the massive avian seer before him. While he was preoccupied with the Chaos Marine, he failed to notice the Lord of Change approaching using the mortar shells to cover its footfalls. A massive stave came crashing down before he could let out a scream.

For Tzeentch, there is no true loss. _Only the next step._


End file.
